Festival of Murder by Ross Macfarlane KC, Chapter 4: An Unwelcome Figure

Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane | Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

Katharine Livingstone, Forensic Examiner, fiddled for a moment with the leather strap on her shoulder: “I’d better be off.’ A shy smile. ‘Still a wage slave, you know…’

A slight pause.

Important moments like this arise from time to time.

Why do we never rehearse them in our heads? This was a moment when Wood could ask to see her again. On a social level. No pressure, you understand. Just a quiet drink. Somewhere nice. The Magnum on Albany Street? The wording would be important. Just a wee drink between two old…not ‘friends’ exactly…how about ‘colleagues’…just a…

‘Thanks, Wally - see you.’ And she strode off. Of course. Many of his professional contemporaries, like Livingstone, were still working. Still on the clock.

Wood turned around and faced the street. The Royal Mile was a moving sea of joy and colour. A big tutti-frutti explosion of smiling faces, outrageous outfits, mobs of shouting students advocating the excellence of their shows - ‘If see just ONE show this year…' (as if the people who had travelled thousands of miles to Edinburgh in August were coming to see just one show), families - the olive-skinned parents with their backpacks, studying their street maps with scrunched-up, bewildered faces, the children jumping up and down with excitement, a very large Catholic Nun - except this was a nun with a beard. On a unicycle. Juggling. Typical Edinburgh Fringe.

Following the somewhat cursory end to the conversation with Katharine Livingstone, Wood felt a tinge of disappointment on the Romantic Front (despite no provocation whatever), and made his way towards the Fringe Office, if only to see granddaughter Abbie in action. Some kids just come out ‘cool’ and Abbie was one of them. Not just the beautiful skin tone or the perfect nose - she just had a way with people. Wood’s friends would tease him: ‘Are you sure you’re related?’

Before he knew it, he found himself standing across from The Tron Kirk in the very spot where ‘The Lady in Red’ had landed on the pavement. He looked up to the window. Still open. Like an unanswered question. What on earth had happened that day? What had been going through the lady’s mind at the top - and on the way down?

His thought process was interrupted by a small object hitting him on the top of the head. Bird poo? He felt through his hair, then examined his hand. Nothing. He looked down and noticed a small silver 5p piece on the pavement. But how could…

Wood turned back to face the road. There on the kerb stood an unwelcome, figure - Bobby McKee. The detective smirked: ‘I thought it was you.’ He nodded towards the coin on the ground: ‘I thought I’d donate to Help the Aged. I heard you’d retired. They let you out of the old folk’s home today?’

Wally Wood tried - oh how he tried - not to rise it the bait of his (fundamentally stupid) nemesis. Always tried to be the better man. Failed every time.

‘DI McKee - lovely to see you. I didn’t know the Edinburgh Festival had a Pie Eating Competition….’

McKee - he would have to admit himself - was not entirely ‘built for speed’. He nodded towards the building: ‘What are you doing here, Wood? I saw you - ‘casing’ the building. Did your pension run out already? Is it money you need for a cup of tea? There’s a Care Van down at Waverley Station, but I don’t know if they’re open yet…’

Wood avoided the temptation: ‘I was here yesterday.’ He pointed up at the high window. ‘When it happened.’

McKee cocked his head and narrowed his eyes: ‘You witnessed it?’

Was he a witness? Wood considered this. The last thing he wanted was to be pulled into a circus where DI Bobby McKee was the Ringmaster. He lied (just a little): ‘No - I saw it afterwards. When the police came. Big crowd around it.’

McKee looked up: ‘Unusual case. Woman of that age. Widow. 83. Mrs Rose Bryant. You’d think that if you’re an old biddy in your eighties and you wanted to ‘off’ yourself, you’d do it different. Run yourself a bath and neck down the whole bottle of your medication.’

‘She was on medication?’

McKee laughed: ‘If you get to your eighties and you’re not on medication, then you’re not trying hard enough.’ He pointed towards the front door of the tenement. ‘Anyway, we’ll soon find out.’ He held up a set of house keys: ‘I’ll check her bathroom cabinet.’

‘Good luck.’

McKee smirked: ‘Come up and see for yourself.’

‘It’s a crime scene - I don’t think that…’

The detective shook his head: ‘Ach - the Forensics have all been in and out, so they’ve done all the dusting and stuff. More dusting than the old bat ever did, by the sound of it.’

Wood stood undecided. What he was being invited to do was against all protocols, but what could be the harm now? His consideration was interrupted by McKee: ‘Anyway - it’s good to have a witness…’

‘For what?’

The detective sighed: ‘The new detective on this case. Young lassie. They’re making anybody a detective these days. No sense of humour. She says that some of my comments are… “inappropriate”. So she says. I think she’s building up a complaint against me. She’s going to be there.’

Wood shrugged: ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Everybody knows that you’re a choir boy, Wood. If you’re there and you say that nothing happened, then nothing happened.’

“Oh, I don’t know…’

McKee groaned: ‘Oh - get the stick out of yer arse and just do as you’re told. I could arrest you right here…’

‘On what charge?’

‘I’ll think of something later. Come on.’ He pointed to the stairs: ‘We’re going up…’

*****

Festival of Murder continues tomorrow in ‘I’ve Never Been Called That Before’